


Walls Could Talk

by withthekeyisking



Series: Romin Week Fics [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and the Signal (Comics)
Genre: Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, Duke Thomas-centric, Facials, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Threats of Violence, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Duke isn't really a fan of the whole undercover thing. It's more suited to Bruce's skillset, and Dick's. Duke would far rather be the signal Bruce entrusted him to be, doing his job out in bright daylight. Not skulking around in the middle of the night, putting on a persona to get some info about a new drug going around.And yet that's where he finds himself. Skulking around and...and at the business end of Black Mask's gun.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Duke Thomas
Series: Romin Week Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209413
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	Walls Could Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Ok show of hands, who knew I was gonna go with gunplay for today's prompt 🙋
> 
> Day 6: A/B/O Dynamics | Slavery AU | **Gunplay**

Duke isn't really a fan of the whole undercover thing. It's more suited to Bruce's skillset, and Dick's. Duke would far rather be the signal Bruce entrusted him to be, doing his job out in bright daylight. Not skulking around in the middle of the night, putting on a persona to get some info about a new drug going around.

And yet that's where he finds himself. Skulking around and...and at the business end of Black Mask's gun.

It at least doesn't _start_ that way. It starts with Duke walking into the kitchen of the Manor to find Tim sitting on the table, a bowl of cereal clenched in one hand and an iPad in the other.

This is not, actually, a sight that is worthy of any note. Tim might not actually be living at the Manor at the moment, but it isn't in any way unusual to find him somewhere in the gigantic place, often looking like he's running on too few hours of sleep and his eyes glued to some form of technology.

(Duke knows most think Tim's spending all his time with electronics either working on a case or doing something big for Wayne Enterprises, but Duke has on numerous occasions walked behind him and witnessed him playing some video game or another, often ones that look really fucking weird and Duke learned not to ask after.)

All of the Bats pop in at weird hours doing unusual things, and Duke's gotten used to it by now. Enjoys it, even, because often they don't hesitate to pull him into whatever ridiculous shit they're up to, as if he's been a member of their family from the very beginning.

That made him...maybe _anxious,_ in the beginning. Definitely wary. He didn't want to rock the boat, and he might be Bruce's 'kid' but he still feels like an outsider, sometimes. But now he's been here a while, and it's starting to feel like these people are maybe his family.

A really fucking weird family, often really spread out, but more than he used to have. And just crazy enough to make Duke feel like he belongs.

So no, Duke doesn't even bat an eye (heh) at the sight of Tim in Superman—or Super _boy_ —pajamas, sipping from the bowl of cereal like it's a cup, thumb sliding across the iPad's screen.

Duke walks past him, heading for the fridge and pulling out a Tupperware container of lasagna, leftover from dinner the night before. Not exactly a shining example of breakfast food, and Alfred would definitely give him a _look_ if he were to catch him, but sue him, he's craving lasagna. Alfred's cooking is just criminally good.

"Hey, Tim," Duke says once he's heated up his food and is sitting down at the table.

The other teen blinks slowly and then turns his head to look at him. He offers a small smile in greeting, and rolls his neck, replying, "So Bruce hasn't managed to scare you away yet, huh?"

Duke snorts. "Nah, why would I leave? That cave is worth all of B's drama."

Tim's smile grows into a small, lopsided grin, his approval clear. It makes something warm glow in Duke's chest.

"What're you doing?" Duke asks, nodding to the iPad.

A small furrow forms between Tim's brows and he looks back to the device, his lips quickly twisting with displeasure. "It's just—a case. It's..."

He trails off, and Duke lets the silence rest. This isn't all that unusual, either. Bruce, Tim, and Dick all have a tendency to get hyper-focused really easily when they have a case on the brain, and sometimes that results in them just...shutting out the world, their brains shifting too firmly into Case Mode that they forget there's still shit going on outside of their brains.

Duke sometimes plays a game, when he finds them like that. See how many things he can change around them before they snap back into reality. He once managed to move all of the furniture in Bruce's study out of place by an inch before he came back to the world around him.

(He got the man's reaction on film, too. It had been funny as hell, watching the befuddlement and confusion, his brain working to figure out what felt _wrong_ around him. World's Greatest Detective, everybody.)

"I'm just frustrated," Tim said suddenly after maybe five minutes of silence. Duke looked up from his phone, listening. "I don't have the _time_ for this, I have so many—I can't take this on. But I can't just _do nothing,_ either, so I'm trying to..." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "But it's not working."

"Can I help?" Duke offers. Tim just looks so _stressed,_ and Duke's certainly never been able to just sit and do nothing when he could help someone, innocent civilian and accomplished vigilante alike. Besides, Duke considers himself a pretty smart person. All that work he put into solving Riddler's riddles had _some_ benefit in the long run.

Tim blinks at him, and the smile that he gives next is far closer to a grimace than an actual smile. "Thank you, but I don't think you want this. It's shaping up to look like it's gonna need a lot of undercover work."

Duke's face twists. Up to this point, there's been no real need for him to do anything undercover. He's worked cases, sure, and fought quite a few villains, but there's just been nothing that required donning a persona. And he was okay with that—Duke _likes_ the hero he is, feels no need to operate the way Bruce and most of the others do. The Signal is out in broad daylight for a _reason,_ and he thrives there.

But that's not to say he isn't _willing_ to do it. If it'll help people? Yeah, absolutely, he'll put in the time and effort, no problem. But 'a lot' of undercover work implies a certain level of _skill_ is probably needed, skill that Duke just doesn't have.

Probably wouldn't be a bad idea for him to talk to Bruce or Dick about learning, though. This is unlikely to be the last time this kind of thing comes up, and Duke would like to feel truly _ready_ for them when they come.

But for now...Tim needs a hand. And Duke's good at bullshitting, and adapting on the fly. So...how hard could this really be?

"Walk me through it," Duke says firmly, trying to look confident and sure.

Tim looks surprised, and then _relieved,_ and then launches into it.

* * *

Duke's been doing the undercover thing for about two weeks before trouble hits.

It's been going pretty well, actually. The case is investigating a new drug that's been creeping through the Gotham underworld, referred to simply by the letter 'Z'; highly addictive, and a strong tendency to attack the central nervous system and shut down the body slowly and painfully. But the high it gives is powerful enough that many people have been willing to take the risk.

And pushers certainly aren't trying to save any of them, that's for sure.

So, Duke pretty much just went undercover as a homeless alley brat like so many others, one willing to do quite a lot for the promise of some cash or a hot meal.

(It's almost depressing how fast they swoop Duke up.)

So here Duke is, two weeks into what basically amounts to selling drugs. Well, technically he's just a _courier,_ hasn't yet been trusted enough to get anywhere near the actual sellers. He managed to get a sample to Tim, though, which was a pretty good win.

He hangs out with the other kids wrapped up in this, too. It's a challenge to keep up his patrol route with all this going on—it's not like Signal can just vanish for a while—but he finds himself invested in this case from the first moment, and he almost can't bare to leave these kids alone with the creeps and criminals that lurk around every corner.

Duke knows what it's like to be vulnerable in this specific way, he's experienced it. He refused to let himself succumb to it, though. He took on _Robin,_ started a movement. He helped a lot of people. And these are just more teens wrapped up in things they can't entirely control—Duke wants to do everything he can to help them out of this situation.

And then, well, maybe a few Wayne Enterprises lottery scholarships can come out of nowhere.

It's when he's hanging with the kids that things go wrong. Jamie, one of the oldest, is telling a story about the time he dared his kid brother to go skinning dipping in Gotham Harbor in the middle of Winter. It sounds kind of like a horrifying story to Duke, but the joy on Jamie's face and in his voice is infectious.

It's been a good night so far. Duke and the others all completed their drops and then each used a portion of the earnings to buy some cheap but surprisingly delicious burgers from a local hole-in-the-wall joint. They're currently in the main floor of the warehouse a lot of the kids have claimed as their home for the time being, all of them circled around a bonfire.

The comradery of it reminds him of his time with the other Robins. Not Tim and Dick and Jason, but the random kids, the movement he was a part of. They were all a team, a force more dangerous than the police had expected them to be. Grown-ups tend to overlook kids until there are too many of them and it's already too late.

These kids could be powerful like that too, if they wanted to. But no one can force you to change your life, and Duke sure as hell isn't going to push them in the direction of vigilantism. He might be a firm believer in everyone having the right to protect themselves and their families, and having the power to do good in the world, but he isn't naïve. Not everyone's like him, and he won't be the type to preach _sink or swim_ when he could instead just help them stay afloat.

These kids don't need a savior. They just need a bit of help.

The raid comes out of nowhere.

Duke thinks it's the police, at first. That they've managed to track down some of the drug runners, and are making a play to catch them while they're all together and mainly with their guards down.

But those aren't the blues of uniforms or the blacks of SWAT gear. And those sure as hell aren't standard issue pistols.

As soon as the door opens, all of them are scattering. Duke has a brief moment where the urge to fight rises in him, when his instincts almost take over, and then he remembers himself. Undercover. He's just a street kid, running drugs. Not someone with any particular level of skill, not a real threat. Drawing attention to himself in particular will only end in pain.

A few of the kids, Duke sees, manage to escape before they're grabbed, small enough to evade grabbing hands and crawl through loose paneling to reach the outside. Duke doesn't blame them at all—all these people might be friends, but none of them are going to risk prison or death just to wait and see if the others make it out, too. And no one would expect them to.

Hell, one of them is only seven years old.

Duke tries to run, but when a man grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him back, Duke doesn't fight with any real intention, just chokes, arms pinwheeling through the air as he's thrown to the ground.

The man drags him across the rough cement floor, and then forces him up onto his knees, binding his hands behind his back with course rope. He tries to calm his racing heart, slow his breathing. He's fine, it's just a bit of rope. And...a lot of men with guns. But. He's dealt with worse.

He glances around, trying to take stock of the situation. The men—who _are_ they?—have managed to capture five others, about half of what the group had been. Duke's relieved to see that officially, none of the kids under thirteen were grabbed, just him and the other older kids. Not _good,_ but better than watching an angry-looking man point a gun at a little boy.

Jake, kneeling next to him and similarly bound, is shaking faintly, eyes darting nervously around the room. Duke eyes him, wary of the boy attempting to make a run for it. These don't seem the type of men to take that well.

Once everyone is settled and the warehouse is filled with a tense silence, the side door swings open with a creak, sharp dress shoes clacking against the cement as the newcomer walks forward.

Duke's heart drops out of his chest, gut clenching. Because that's _Black Mask,_ strolling towards them in a sharp black suit, mask eerily blank and definitely disturbing.

Roman Sionis really isn't someone Duke wants to mess with right now. In costume, this wouldn't be a big deal. Black Mask is a dangerous man, but not someone Duke can't handle if he ever ran into him. But right now, undercover and with a handful of defenseless kids to protect, this is pretty close to the worst thing that could happen.

Black Mask is a cruel, cunning man with little care for the lives of others. According to Jason he's also sadistic and quick to pulling the trigger—or, sometimes more accurately, making _others_ pull the trigger—and if he were to see him on the street as a civilian he should _'cross to the other side of the road and then not look back, okay?'_

The biggest issue is that Duke has no idea why Mask's _here,_ capturing a few random kids. They're just couriers, they don't actually have access to the product when not specifically on a job, which they certainly aren't on now. What could a man like this possibly want from them?

Mask comes to stop in front of the line of them, head tilted in a way that gives the impression he's surveying them. Duke wishes he could see his face, his eyes—he's no body language expert, but being able to see someone's expression helps _leagues_ in figuring out how to move forward in dangerous situations.

Not that he imagines the blackened skull under there is particularly expressive. Duke's never seen it in person, and he highly doubts that he wants to. But he's not quite sure the freaky BDSM mask is much better.

"I'm going to give you all _one_ chance to confess," Black Mask says, voice a low, smooth baritone. "Which one of you is responsible for skimming off the top of my product?"

Duke feels almost lightheaded with how fast the blood rushes out of his face. He'd had no idea the criminal at the top of this chain is Black Mask! Tim didn't know either! They'd been working on finding out, Falcone had been the most likely suspect going by the adjustment of his books lately, but _Black Mask?_ Shit, their approach would've been so much different if they'd had this intel.

And they definitely would've involved Jason in the plan.

Duke forces himself to move past the surprise, the anxiety, and to the question at hand. It's _possible_ that Duke is the culprit Black Mask is after; he's sent some of the product to Tim for analysis, after all. But the amount he'd sent...it was barely anything, _minute._ He hadn't wanted to risk a situation exactly like this. No, he needed to be _trusted,_ which meant no missing product.

So that means one of the others has been stealing. Duke curses them inside his head for their stupidity, for the fact that they thought they wouldn't get caught. There's not a single universe where this ends well. Why the _hell_ would they risk it?

There's silence, none of them saying a word. Jake, Mae, and Jamie all have their gazes fixed resolutely on the ground, but Cara is eyeing the men surrounding them and Andy is looking at Black Mask.

They all look afraid. Trying to hide it, but afraid nonetheless.

"No?" Black Mask questions. His tone is offhand, almost _bored._ "No takers? Alright then."

He pulls a gun from his shoulder holster in one smooth motion and points it at Jamie, pressing the muzzle to the middle of his forehead. Mae lets out a short shout before pressing her lips into a thin, tight line, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to stay calm and silent.

Duke watches Jamie's head move back under the force of the gun, eyes wide, heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. A plea for Black Mask to stop lodges at the back of his throat, mind racing as he tries to find any way out of this.

"I suppose I'll simply have to move down the line, then," Mask says on a sigh, put-upon. His finger curls over the trigger.

Fuck it, _screw_ the undercover mission, he's not going to just sit here and let Black Mask kill a defenseless teenager.

He's just started to shift his weight to spring up when Cara blurts out almost desperately, "It was me!"

Black Mask pauses. His head turns to look at her, and Duke's does as well, lips parting in surprise. She's trembling faintly now, matching the way Jamie is, and her eyes have a wet sheen to them. But she looks up at Black Mask bravely, breath hitching as she clearly tries to stay calm.

"Isn't _this_ a surprise?" Mask says, and lets his arm drop, the gun falling to his side. They all seem to take a collective breath of relief, one that is short-lived as Mask moves over to stand in front of Cara instead.

"Suppose it was sexist of me to assume it wouldn't be you or Blondie over there, huh?" Black Mask chuckles. His gun nudges at her jaw, nudging Cara's head up until her neck is fully extending. Duke sees her throat work as she swallows nervously. "So why'd you do it, sweetheart? Or are you just trying to save your boyfriend's life."

"I-it was me," Cara confirms, words stuttering under the force of the gun. "I'm—it was for my mom, she's—she's trying to get clean but she just needed—she just—"

Black Mask chuckles again, and the way he digs the gun in harder shuts up Cara's rambling.

"Junkies," Mask snorts. "Always need just _one more fix._ Did you tell your dear junkie mother that you were stealing her fix from Black Mask?"

Cara gives a short shake of her head, nostrils flaring as she draws in a breath. "N-no."

Mask hums. "Well, too bad for her you won't be providing anymore. The question now, though, is what to do with you, sweetheart." The gun drifts up the line of her jaw, pressing against her temple and drawing a whimper out of her. "Killing you would be so much simpler, but it seems a crime to not put a pretty face like this to some use."

Something cold runs through Duke at the words. No, no he can't do that. Cara's _fifteen,_ he can't put her in one of his whorehouses. Duke knows there are young prostitutes, he _knows,_ he's seen them, but it's always horrible. He can't let her be forced into that. Can't let Black Mask take her away and make her let people rape her for the cost of staying alive.

Or, even if his plan isn't to put her in one of those places but just use her himself...No, no Duke can't allow that. Not to a sadist like this.

Mask's gun slides back down again, hooking under her chin and tilting her head this way and that. "Yes," he murmurs, "I think we can come to some sort of arrangement."

"Wait, wait," escapes Duke before he's even aware of it, eyes fixed on where Mask has lifted his gun to rub it along the seam of Cara's tightly-pressed lips. "You— _don't."_

Black Mask turns his head, those empty red lenses boring into his soul. "Something to say, kid?"

Duke's mind races. There has to be something he can say to make him leave Cara alone. What could he possibly offer that would be worth more to a man like this than a pretty little girl? What could he...

He swallows heavily. His chest is painfully tight. "I—I'll take on her debt."

Cara whimpers, eyes wide. The others are staring at him, too, their disbelief clear. But also their _relief._ They've known Cara far longer than they've known him. They might like him, but if they had to choose which one of them to protect, it would be their old friend who also is a young untouched girl, rather than the boy they just met.

"Is that so," Black Mask says. "You that eager to get hurt?"

Duke tries not to let his anxiety show, but he doubts he's completely successful. "She's sorry, and she just wanted to help her mom. And you—you do this sometimes, right? You let people take on others' debts to you. So I'll—I'm gonna take it on."

Black Mask gives a soft laugh. He presses at Cara's face with the gun one last time before strolling towards Duke, closing the distance. Much like he had with Cara before, he places the muzzle of the gun on the underside of his chin and nudges it up, forcing his neck into an arch.

It's warm from having been pressed against Cara and Jamie. It makes Duke's heart jam into his throat, how close he is to death. One curl of Black Mask's finger and Duke's brains won't be in his head anymore.

"And why would I want you," Black Mask murmurs, "when there's a pretty little cunt right over there?"

Duke withholds a shudder. He can hear Cara's breath catch on a cry that she doesn't let escape. The sound of fear emboldens Duke, and he squares his shoulders, lifting his gaze to meet the opaque red eyes.

"I'll do whatever you want. She won't be—willing, or much help to your...business. But I'll do what you want, to work off the debt. I could be of use."

"Whatever I want, huh?" Black Mask muses. Duke nods shakily, as much as he can with the muzzle still pressed against his skin. "Alright, baby. I'm going to give you a chance to prove that dedication."

Duke hesitates, wets his lips. "And how do you want me to do that?"

The gun slides upward, stroking almost intimately along his cheekbone and across the bridge of his nose before settling against his mouth, a heavy weight on his bottom lip.

Duke's brain is almost pure static when Black Mask purrs, "Open up," but he has enough coherency to do as he's told, letting his lips part.

The barrel is immediately pressed in. It's a foreign, strange sensation, tinged with the unique taste of gunpowder and oil and something almost leathery. It's not... wholly _unpleasant,_ per say, but it's acrid and sharp, and the mere knowledge of what exactly is in his mouth is enough to make him want to vomit.

But he can do this. He _decided_ to do this. He knew what was on Black Mask's brain, and while a gun is— _different_ from what Duke had been preparing for Mask to put in his mouth, it doesn't actually have to be a big deal.

It's just a task. It's not a big deal. He can handle this.

Black Mask slides the gun in and out languidly, then pulls it out completely to rub it along Duke's lips, coating them with spit. When he pushes it back in, he goes deeper than before, and Duke gags as it hit the back of his throat, eyes watering.

"There you go, baby," Black Mask murmurs. "Take it all."

Duke tries his best not to choke, when Mask begins thrusting it in and out in earnest. The hard metal clacks against his teeth, bumps painfully against the roof of his mouth. It feels unnatural to have it in his mouth, and he finds his tongue pressing against it in an unconscious attempt to expel the object.

Black Mask shifts his arm upward, forcing Duke's head back even further, the arch of his neck near painful. It's almost impossible to swallow like this, so saliva pools in his mouth, adding a wet noise to the thrusts of Mask's gun.

The man's free hand lifts, grabbing Duke's jaw in a bruising grip, holding him solidly in place as he inches the barrel deeper, pushing the muzzle down into his throat.

Duke shudders, involuntarily trying to toss his head. He's almost grateful for how easily Black Mask keeps him in place, afraid of what might happen if he moves too fast. Mask's finger is still so close to that trigger, setting fire to a buzz under his skin, his fight or flight instinct screaming at him as he forces himself to freeze.

"Look at you," Black Mask coos. "Taking my gun into your fucking throat. A born whore, hm? Just like that, baby. Oh yeah, we're going to have a lot of fun together."

Duke tries to push those words from his mind, not let them impact him. It's fine. He's just going to pay off Cara's debt, that's it. It's all going to be okay.

Black Mask jams the gun as far as it will go, ignoring the wet, complaining noise Duke makes in response, shuddering as it stays there, heavy against his tongue and an intense pressure in his throat.

And then Mask lets go of the gun, hand slowly unwrapping from the grip. The hand on his jaw gets even tighter though, the message clear: _Stay exactly where I've put you._

So when that second hand falls away, Duke doesn't move, staying with his neck arched and the barrel of the gun filling him up, the grip of it sitting firmly against his bottom lip and chin, digging his lip into his teeth.

Black Mask's hands go to his belt, and he unfastens it quickly, his button and zipper quickly following. Duke tries to remain calm as Mask fishes his cock out of his pants—honestly, it's not like a dick is any worse than a fucking _gun_ being left in his throat—and watches as the man strokes himself, the rough slap of skin on skin echoing through the warehouse.

He groans low and long when he comes, spilling himself across Duke's face. It sticks to his cheeks and eyelashes and spills into his mouth, the salty taste of cum joining the sharpness of the gunpowder. His stomach turns at the combination. Or maybe just at the situation as a whole. 

"Well," Black Mask says, sounding amused, slightly breathless. "That was fun, kid. You put on such a nice show."

Duke becomes suddenly aware of how many eyes are on them right now. All of Black Mask's men, surrounding them, placed through the warehouse. And the other kids, just to the side of Duke, close enough to have surely heard and seen every little thing.

He can only imagine what he looks like.

Black Mask pulls his gun out of Duke's mouth almost like an afterthought, wiping off the spit and cum on the shoulder of Duke's jacket. He then tucks it right back into his shoulder holster and dusts off his hands, clapping them together.

Duke forces himself to swallow. He barely keeps himself from gagging.

"Good job, baby. I'm convinced."

Mask fishes a cellphone out of his pocket and tosses it at Duke. It bounces off of his chest and lands on the concrete between his knees with a clatter. He stares down at it for a moment in confusion before lifting his head and meeting Black Mask's eyeless gaze.

"I'll send you a time and place for your first assignment," Mask tells him, tone almost indulgent. "So you can work on paying off that debt, hm?"

Then, without another word to Duke, he turns and strolls back towards the door he'd entered. He waves a hand through the air and calls to his men, "Cut 'em loose."

Duke's wrists are freed roughly, and he lets his arms hang for a moment before reaching for the cellphone. He's struck by the urge to crush it, to throw it against the wall. But not only would that be stupid, it would be damn near suicidal.

And certainly bad for Cara.

Arms wrap around Duke's shoulders, and he tenses reflexively, preparing for a fight. But it's just Cara, who buries her face in his neck and clings to him, whispering hoarse words of gratitude against his skin.

He wraps an arm around her in turn, squeezing reassuringly. She's going to be just fine. And, if Duke handles this right, he will be, too.

**Author's Note:**

> One day to go my dudes!


End file.
